Anniversary of Disaster Day, February 12th 2010

Good Lord, how far back yesterday do I go to start this? I could start with first thing in the morning…On a day that is 37 degrees and raining, with 37 and raining being the forecast for the day….I should’ve known.

It was an omen.

I should’ve gone back to bed…

Oh, for a re-do…

I went to Wal-Mart in aforementioned bad weather for Valentine supplies. I got all kinds of creative things to produce beautiful Valentines; construction paper, glue, scissors, glitter hearts, markers…

Silk rose petals which I scattered all over the floor for Hannah (my kindergartener) when she walked in from school….

Why, why, why do I do these things? Why? Don‘t I know these things never go as planned? Why don‘t I just cut my losses and throw fifty dollars out of my van window and go back home, prop up my feet and watch The Young And The Restless like a proper housewife….

Here’s why I do it. Because I am delusional…I see this as precious memory-making. I see it as setting up a scene. I see it as fun. And pretty…I like the artwork.

But…..Frank sees this as a mess.

And the possibility that all this mess actually cost him money today. To him, this defies logic. It is just plain stupid to arm kids with scissors, glue, paper, markers and paint when we seem to be continuously embroiled in battle with them in the ongoing War of Tidy. It’s like giving your enemy a hand grenade when all you’ve got is a water gun.

He comes home from work to find Hannah, Ashlyn, Ansley and Averey cutting, gluing, drawing, ….arguing….fighting…at our kitchen table.

Frank: 1, Paige: 0, (Kids: 1,000)

He looks at me and says “What the hell is that?” He has gotten out the broom, on his crutches and is sweeping up the silk hearts and putting them in the trash, which sends Hannah into a tantrum.

“That is Valentine-making. Lighten up will you?” I take the broom and dustpan from his hands and start picking rose petals out of the trash.

And he does lighten up, he walks over and inspects their masterpieces. Sometimes I find that Frank is like a TV and all I have to do is switch his channel and everything’s fine. I have to “tweak” him a little…

He compliments each one of the girls and then reminds me that our dinner reservation is at 7:30. We are going out to dinner tonight to celebrate a disaster, which is the 10th anniversary of his motorcycle accident. That accident is the reason he is on crutches today, a follow up surgery to the first one. The accident profoundly changed our marriage...for the better....however......

Never celebrate the anniversary of a disaster.

~~~~~

We arrive at the restaurant and a valet takes the car. We walk into the lobby of the Hotel Duval and I proceed to walk in the direction in Don Shula’s, which is on the right. Frank grabs my arm and says: “No, tonight we’re going this way, they’ve opened up a new section, there’s a piano over there.” So we walk to the left where we are met by a hostess who asks our name and tells us they’ve been waiting for us. Of course, to know us is to wait for us, we’re never on time for anything.

Anyway, this is nice, it’s good to be anticipated, made to feel welcome…I love this place.

She leads us to a table that is…..

Right on top of four other people.

You know the situation where there is one long seat along a wall and they place tables in front of it? Well, we were all there together, cozy… Those people didn’t want us sitting there any more than we wanted to sit there. I could hear every single word they were saying and vice versa, which meant that I couldn’t ask the hostess for another table.

Because they’d hear me.

I’m going to need a glass of wine for this…I open the wine list, order a glass and wait on it’s arrival. Frank tries to stay positive in spite of the crappy table. There is an identical wall directly across from us with the same setup and no one is seated over there. It’s empty…

but not for long...

The waiter returns with the drinks and Frank attempts small talk while the waiter pours.

“This side is nice, we’ve never been over here before.”

“Yeah, we had lots of reservations this weekend, so we opened it up for the commoners.”

What? What did he just say?

Was that a joke?

Did he just say “commoners?”

What’s a “commoner” and do we qualify as such? Do these people sitting in incredibly close proximity to me qualify as well? I look over at them, just to assess their “commonness” and note that all the “special people” are apparently sitting in the restaurant across the lobby. We were not “high fallutin” enough to be seated with those folks. I actually thought I looked good tonight, almost thin…

Guess we missed the turn into the Golden Corral and ended up at this place.

About 30 minutes after we’d gotten there, a couple walked past our table, whom we know, Matt and Elizabeth are their names…we chatted, they walked off to their table.

A few minutes after that, a man walks in with five young women, between the ages of maybe 28-32, all of them dressed to the nines, all of them beautiful. Frank didn’t even try to hide the fact that he turned his entire body around, cast and all….to get a good look, particularly at a stunning blonde, who enjoyed his attention.

I did not enjoy it.

They were seated in the vacant seats across from us, dramatically increasing the value of the real estate. For Frank...

We got the bill, that friggin’ glass of wine was fourteen dollars, Frank tried to argue, to no avail…I’m 42 and am pretty sure that was the most expensive drink I’ve ever had, the cost of the beverage obviously being positively correlated with my need for it…

We paid.

We left.

At this point, I was seriously wondering how this day could get worse…

Frank called home to check on the kids. I hear him talking with Chelsea, our sitter.

“She did what?….And they came?…..What’d they say to her?”

And of course, overhearing that exchange….

“GIVE ME THE PHONE!!! Chelsea, what happened?”

“Well, Hannah called 911. And they came…”

“WHAT?”

“Paige, I am so sorry, I saw her sitting there holding the phone, but she never talked to anybody then she just hung it up.”

“Good Lord.”

“He wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“I know, but he REALLY wasn’t very nice.”

“How?”

“He told her ‘Some cops like kids. I’m NOT one of them.”

“Did you get his name?” At this point I am boiling over with anger…Don’t get me wrong, I understand that he had MUCH better things to do than visit my home on a Friday night. Hannah was reprimanded for the 911 call from us…and for what it’s worth, I assumed that this 911 lesson had been learned in school, so I immediately started cursing the school because I should have been told about this, so that I could explain that she should NEVER call 911 unless it is a REAL emergency…I was so mad at the school. I was so mad at the police officer…

But only for a minute as ignorance is bliss….oh for a re-do…

When we got home, we heard the story from Chelsea, Scott and Hannah, who went from a villain to a victim in a matter of minutes, I am now trying to console her. She told me that the officer told her “it was her fire morning.”

“Fire morning?”

“Fire warning, Mamma.”

“Fire warning, fire warning….Hannah, do you think it might have been ‘final warning?’”

“Oh yeah, final warning.” That. Is. It…I cannot imagine her fear at this intimidating sight, a kindergartener on the wrong side of the law.

“By the way, where’d you learn about 911?” Now remember, I’m expecting her to say “at school…,” my blissful ignorance ending in three...two....one.....

“You know, Mamma, the song…”

“What song?”

And through sniffles and tears, she attempts to sing: “Somebody call 9-1-1, Shorty’s fire is burning on the dance floor, oh-whoa-ooohhhh…”

Blissful ignorance is now over…I have that song on a dance playlist on my ipod that I let Ashlyn, Ansley, Averey and Hannah dance to.

I am the source of the problem.

Of course….

And again, it’s only 11:00pm, we are home, I am wondering if this day can get any worse…I mean we do still have one hour left…

We went to bed.

Frank is reading and I am fuming, reliving the whole 10th anniversary of the disaster, disaster. I am remembering the restaurant and the“commoner” comment…so I ask Frank “I still don’t get the ‘commoner’ thing, I mean, do we look like ‘commoners?’”

And brace yourself for the perfect ending of Anniversary of Disaster Day…

“Well, I was there and Matt, and those girls were there…” I abso-freakin’lutely cannot believe he has said this. If only he were as smart as he is good-looking…

“What about Elizabeth?” I dare not mention me…yet…

“Well, Elizabeth looks like a wife.”

“A wife?”

“You know, a mother, but that’s okay.” Really? Ya reckon? I mean, should Elizabeth and I have worn something strapless or short or very, very tight like the tarts with the man? In ten years are those women still gonna be smoking hot or will they miraculously turn into wives and mothers as well?

And I thought I looked good….I guess I did, for a 42 year old wife.

Let’s tally my score sheet for today:

Get up.

Shop for Valentine crap thus uselessly spending money a.k.a. “Time and Money Wasting“ or “Not Being Thrifty.”

Provide Valentine crap for kids to fight over and make a mess.

Labeled a “Commoner” which made my poor husband a “Commoner By Default.” He and Matt had to sit on the “Commoner Side” because of their “Commoner Wives,” but at least the view was good across the room, you know, of the other people who were accidentally stuck in there, too.

Bad, bad, bad parent letting kids dance to bad song.

Cops arrive at the scene….of my home.

Get insulted by husband on a night that I thought I looked good. Have to decide whether or not this deserves a fight, forget it, I don’t have the energy and I really just don’t care.

Go to Bed.

It is now midnight and thankfully, I cannot ask the question “Can this day get any worse?” But the day has now been redefined. February 12th, 2000 was a disaster. February 12th, 2010 was also a disaster and it can completely stand on it’s own, it has it's own legs. It's own teeth.

It's own bite...

Next year, on February 12th, I might decide to stay in bed.

All day.

By the way: Matt and Elizabeth are not our friends’ real names. I’ve changed their names, not to protect the innocent, but to protect the idiot.

And Ashlyn, Ansley and Averey are not my children, they are our friend's children who live across the street, they make frequent appearances in my posts.

Studies Show That Parenthood May Be Aging

“I was screaming at them so much that I actually got chest pains.”

“I screamed at mine so much that I was foaming at the mouth.”

“I don’t scream, I just tell them that I’m gonna get in the van and start driving and never come back.”

“Well, when I got the chest pains, I told them that they were going to kill me one day.”

“Foaming at the mouth….have you ever foamed at the mouth? I was foaming at the mouth! Can you believe that?”

This is a conversation already in progress between me and two other mothers volunteering this morning at school. We are all officers in the PTO.

Driving and never coming back.

Kids are going to eventually kill me.

Foaming at the mouth.

This was less than two minutes of conversation about how demanding parenting can be. I love these kinds of conversations because I often think that I suck at parenting when everyone else seems to pull it off so effortlessly. From there, I walked outside to wait for Hannah’s kindergarten class to come out for lunch, where I see two parents, one man and one woman, both of whom I actually know, running up with lunchboxes. The woman (Sarah…my neighbor) says to the man (shall remain un-named…)

“Glad to see I’m not the only loser who forgot her kid’s lunch.”

To which the Dad, who’s hurrying with three lunchboxes says:

“Not so much that I forgot, but, we didn’t have any food.”

“Well, that’s a better excuse than I have, not having any food is better than completely forgetting.” (I don’t know….I’d have to consult the parenting handbook on that one.)

Then she turns to me and says “It’s not like the little shit’s gonna eat it anyway… I aught to just send an empty lunchbox…”

We are now out of earshot of the Dad who’s sprinting to the lunchroom to get there before the first of his three kids.

She continues: “I know I look like shit, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. What are you doing up here?” I take in Sarah’s appearance. She’s wearing mismatched sweats with Keds, her hair’s a mess, no makeup, but she’s wearing a stunning ruby heart necklace, which I find odd with the ensemble, but Sarah tends to be a little eccentric, which is why I like her so much. I also like people “who don’t give a shit…” as she’d say, because I care way too much…

“Volunteering all morning, now I‘m going to kindergarten lunch.”

I just saw Lisa (another neighbor) speeding home, I called her to warn her that a cop’s sitting at the top of our street.”

Lisa’s always in a hurry. I’m also always in a hurry. This childrearing business is a tough gig. Lisa’s been volunteering all morning, too, and is now rushing home to probably, oh, I don’t know….sit there, feet up, eat some bon-bons, read a magazine, watch a soap…

Not.

She’s driving home in a hurry because she has to do laundry, empty the dishwasher, go to the grocery store, feed the dog, make the beds, plus about 20 other similar things….all before 2:30, which is when she leaves to go back to the school to pick up her kids. I know this because it’s the same thing that’s on my agenda. The difference between Lisa and me, however, is that she will actually accomplish these things and I will sit down and blog about how little time I have, which is partially because I blog.

I write and put my failures out there for all of you to see, I still don’t know why, maybe because it’s free and a therapist is a hundred dollars an hour or maybe just because for a long time, people thought I had my act together, which I do, as much as anyone can without a staff…

So, since I’m in the business of life exposed and I’m discussing the intricate and slightly mundane details of my day so far….I may as well tell you about a discussion that Frank and I had this morning while we were getting ready to leave.

I’m looking in the mirror, assessing my made-up self. I don’t often wear makeup these days, so I was looking slightly more attractive than, say…yesterday. Anyway, in the last six months or so, I’ve taken to putting my hands on my cheeks and pulling them back slightly toward my ears. I find that I look about 15 years younger when I do this. It's incredibly depressing and it makes me look sort of like an alien, but I do it anyway, kind of like morbid curiosity, I can’t help myself. I am also startled that I didn’t do this just one year ago. I fear the direction I seem to be headed. I fear jowls. I fear turkey neck. I turn and show Frank my pulled back younger, yet alien-looking face.

“Look at this, Frank, just look at this.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see?”

And, if you’ve ever read more than one of my posts, you can predict what he’s going to say here. Frank has never been afraid to walk into a marital mine field. Frank usually runs toward the direction of a matrimonial mine field, then runs all around inside it, setting off explosions all while getting plenty of exercise. It’s Frank Flynn Multi Tasking.

“Just lose some weight, it’ll go away.”

“THIS ISN’T WEIGHT!”

“Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This is age. This is droop. THIS IS OLD!” (This could be expensive if I start demanding a facelift. He better tread lightly. He‘s backing out of the mine field. On tiptoes. He fears a potential hit. To his wallet.)

He says nothing. You knew he wouldn’t.

“If I lose weight, it will get worse! What is happening to me?”

“Nothing. Let go of your face.”

“I hated 40. I really hate 42. This sucks.”

“Forget it, you look fine. Does navy go with black?”

“No.”

“What about navy with a yellow and navy striped shirt?” (Ummm....)

“Yes.”

I used to watch those Oil of Olay commercials, they’d be talking about “growing old gracefully” and I’d think “What’s the BIG DEAL? So what? Everybody ages, I’m not gonna care one bit!” (I actually just made myself laugh out loud by typing that...) It was easy not to care, I was probably in my late 20’s or early 30’s. Guess what ladies?

IT’S COMING AND YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

A LOT!!

And your children will do little to help with the aging process. I now know why my father is gray. It is because he had three daughters. I’m surprised my parents are not institutionalized.

They sent three daughters to college.

They put three daughters in sororities.

They threw three weddings,

Then two divorces,

Then two more weddings, (Bonus!)

All of which they’re probably still paying for.

They’ve employed all three of us (and they had to pay us more because we had a college degree…)

They’ve employed two of five husbands.

They’ve paid for one husband to go back to college. (Bonus!)

Gray.

Aging…

Parenting…

Think I’ll call my parents and apologize for everything…even the things my sisters did…which may take a while….

Then I’m go for a ride in the van…

It may be a very long ride.....